Perry Shaw for me—­no, he comes puffin’ up to me himself—­because a big corner-piece o’ the bank had slipped into the brook where she makes that elber at the bottom o’ the Seventeen Acre, an’ all the rubbishy alders an’ sallies which he ought to have cut out when he took the farm, they’d slipped with the slip, an’ the brook was comin’ rooshin’ down atop of ’em, an’ they’d just about back an’ spill the waters over his winter wheat.  The water was lyin’ in the flats already.  “Gor a-mighty, Jesse!” he bellers out at me, “get that rubbish away all manners you can.  Don’t stop for no fagottin’, but give the brook play or my wheat’s past salvation.  I can’t lend you no help,” he says, “but work an’ I’ll pay ye."’

‘You had him there,’ Jabez chuckled.

’Yes.  I reckon I had ought to have drove my bargain, but the brook was backin’ up on good bread-corn.  So ’cardenly, I laid into the mess of it, workin’ off the bank where the trees was drownin’ themselves head-down in the roosh—­just such weather as this—­an’ the brook creepin’ up on me all the time.  ‘Long toward noon, Jim comes mowchin’ along with his toppin’ axe over his shoulder.

’"Be you minded for an extra hand at your job?” he says.

’"Be you minded to turn to?” I ses, an’—­no more talk to it—­Jim laid in alongside o’ me.  He’s no hunger with a toppin’ axe.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve seed him at a job o’ throwin’ in the woods, an’ he didn’t seem to make out no shape,’ said Jabez.  ’He haven’t got the shoulders, nor yet the judgment—­my opinion—­when he’s dealin’ with full-girt timber.  He don’t rightly make up his mind where he’s goin’ to throw her.’

‘We wasn’t throwin’ nothin’.  We was cuttin’ out they soft alders, an’ haulin’ ’em up the bank ’fore they could back the waters on the wheat.  Jim didn’t say much, ’less it was that he’d had a postcard from Mary’s Lunnon father, night before, sayin’ he was comin’ down that mornin’.  Jim, he’d sweated all night, an’ he didn’t reckon hisself equal to the talkin’ an’ the swearin’ an’ the cryin’, an’ his mother blamin’ him afterwards on the slate.  “It spiled my day to think of it,” he ses, when we was eatin’ our pieces.  “So I’ve fair cried dunghill an’ run.  Mother’ll have to tackle him by herself.  I lay she won’t give him no hush-money,” he ses.  “I lay he’ll be surprised by the time he’s done with her,” he ses.  An’ that was e’en a’most all the talk we had concernin’ it.  But he’s no hunger with the toppin’ axe.

‘The brook she’d crep’ up an’ up on us, an’ she kep’ creepin’ upon us till we was workin’ knee-deep in the shallers, cuttin’ an’ pookin’ an’ pullin’ what we could get to o’ the rubbish.  There was a middlin’ lot comin’ down-stream, too—­cattle-bars, an’ hop-poles and odds-ends bats, all poltin’ down together; but they rooshed round the elber good shape by the time we’d backed out they drowned trees.  Come four o’clock we reckoned we’d done a proper day’s work, an’ she’d take no harm if we left her.  We couldn’t puddle about there in the dark an’ wet to no more advantage.  Jim he was pourin’ the water out of his boots—­no, I was doin’ that.  Jim was kneelin’ to unlace his’n.  “Damn it all, Jesse,” he ses, standin’ up; “the flood must be over my doorsteps at home, for here comes my old white-top bee-skep!"’